He and his human.
Its winter, today she picked me up. It was cold outside but I had a cardboard box, I liked her smell- so I let her scoop me into her embrace. She smelt like warm summer mornings. She took me with her, in her soft arms. She took me on the big loud train. Now I'm in her home and its mine too.
She lives alone. Plain white walls and cream coloured carpets. Simple decorations adorn the ghostly walls. Here and there comfy furniture is scattered, it's calm and quiet and she's saved a small spot by the fire for me. She keeps her shoes tidily by the door, it's wooden and brown. She says I will have to stay inside for a while but I don't mind. I like it in here I can relax and I can sleep.
She has five rooms, one I don't like at all. Sometimes it's wet and I don't like the damp on my fur. She spends a lot of time in there; I don't know what she does. She changes her smell and sometimes, the colours on her face. She goes in there before work and I like how she does her mane; she ties it back from her face and I can see her eyes. They are good eyes- green and round. When she's about to leave she strokes my head, she promises she will come home soon and I know she will.
When she returns occasionally she brings a gift for me. Once she bought me a collar, it was red like the dress she wore that day. At times the collar itches and I can't get it off but it reminds me of her so I never try too hard to remove it. Other times she brings home another one of her kind. I don't like him as much as her. He smells of dog and his hands are cold and clammy. I can tell she likes him because she spends longer in the wet room when he is coming. She sometimes makes a throaty noise when he talks and he makes them too, his are deeper and they rumble from his chest.
It's best when it is just her and I. When we sit and watch the rain clouds past or when I'm on her lap in the warm, as snow drifts down blanketing the ground outside the window. I like the dark nights, lying on her bed next to her, her covers rustle and the world is still. At that time only I am awake and I feel like I am protecting her.
When she is not here, I sit at the window. The trees are changing dark branches begin to cover with buds. As the days grow longer green shoots and leaves appear upon the plants and the shrubbery. I see her come along the path way, skipping around puddles and pools of mud and before I know it, she's in the house with me. The garden soon meshes together into a multicoloured dream; pink blossoms grow on the tree near the window. She looks beautiful arriving home like a breath of wind among the fallen cherry blossoms.
She has made a flap for me, so I can go outside when the weather is fine. I play in the bushes and await her return. She makes the throaty sound when I pounce at her feet and she bares her teeth but I know she won't hurt me. It is nice outside when it is warm. I lie on the lawn and sun my belly, nothing bothers me here. Once I caught her a bird, it had a pretty blue belly and it chirped sweetly. I left it at the door for her and watched from the tree. She didn't bare her teeth or make a throaty sound, water leaked from her eyes and she dug a hole for it. I don't know why she didn't eat it but she still picked me up and hugged me to her.
The sun is hot, very hot. I have found a friend. She is called Misa and she lives across the street. Sometimes we lay in the shade together, Misa is jealous of Her. I tell her to stop being ridiculous. Misa asks me if I love Her more, I never answer. I like Misa but She is better by far. I like the summer, where everything is hot and colourful. It is my favourite season where the days are longer and I spend more time with Her when she comes home. We spend most of our time outside. Enjoying the flora scented evenings. When the big one comes over she goes inside and waits for Him.
The other day in the food room, a box made a shrill shrieking sound. Sometimes it makes this sound; I am not fond of it. The noise did not cease until she rushed forward and grasped the box. She held part of it to her ear. She spoke, her gentle words floating like butterflies through the cool house air. She talked but not to me. She spoke to the box and I heard a buzzing from it. That day her soft voice rose and became sharp and high. More water dropped from her eyes and rolled in fat droplets down her pink cheeks- I wonder why. Soon she slammed the box down and ran to the bedroom. She shut the door, I couldn't get in; she always lets me in.
The next day she went to work, she spent no time in the wet room. Her mane was left loose, it hid her luminous eyes. She didn't change the colours on her face nor her scent. That evening I sat in the garden and waited for her, red gold leaves fell on the path. I chased some to pass the time. She came home late. At last I heard the solemn crunch of leaves upon the path, she had returned yet the terracotta sun had long set and she was weary, she had not returned home so late before. When she reached the comfy room I tried to sit on her lap. She pushed me off. She told me that she had no time for me, at the moment. Then she locked herself in the bedroom again.
Autumn is a funny season. Things die in splendid glory. The love in our house died too, but not like the beautiful trees. I feel a melancholy I still wait for her but she never bares her teeth for me anymore. I still love her and I'm glad she's mine now. I don't have to share her with Him. I feel sad though, I think she misses Him. She still has me, I don't seem enough. I feel lonely, Misa moved away with her tall one. I miss her too but I miss the love She gave me the most. I prefer summer to autumn, the heat makes all tension evaporate. Autumn reminds me of what's to come, of all the problems that seemingly melted away.
Winter again. She left home for work yesterday. She hasn't come back. I wonder where she has gone. The house is cold and dark without her. I've waited in the window for hours, and I haven't caught a glimpse of her nor any other tall ones. The fire burned out long ago, and a cold breeze whistles down the chimney. I wonder when she will come back. I think I need her. I thought she needed me. The house is so empty. I used to like the quiet and the silence of this house; now it's suffocating me, killing me and drowning me in its solitude. I overlooked those little sounds, the shuffle of her feet as she moved around the house, the rasp of her breathing in the night and the rushing of the water through the metal pipes in the wall.
Snow is starting to fall. In small flakes, swirling in the white morning light. I hate the house now. I only sit here and wait for her. She still hasn't come back, it has been a month. A long month without her, her scent is fading and I miss her. Last week people in black came. They took her stuff, they tried to take me. I did not want to leave. I must wait for her. These people, their eyes welled up with water like hers used to. I don't understand, I don't know why she didn't come back. This house is cold without her. It will be warm again when she comes home. The savage starvation that I suffer will end when she comes home.
I hope she comes home soon.
She'd never leave me.
She will come back.
I will wait for her.
I don't think she's coming home.